


Flicker

by jeni_andtheafterthought



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attempted Memory Alteration, Attempted Murder, Brief Physical Torture, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Established Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, Knife Use, M/M, Magical Equivalent to Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Minor/OC Character Death, Murder, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Sexual Bondage, Non-con Between Harry Potter and OMC, Potions used as a magical equivalent of drugs, Psychological Torture, Stalking, Syringe use/Needle mention (not used for intravenous drugs), Virginity Fixation, Virginity Mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-04-20 13:37:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14262144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeni_andtheafterthought/pseuds/jeni_andtheafterthought
Summary: Harry has an argument with Draco but places a very high regard on his privacy.  Instead of making a scene, thus feeding the vultures of the media, he stays calm and sits down for a drink in a bar.Harry never makes it home that night.  He quickly loses control of the situation.  With no access to his magic, he is left in the hands of a man he just met.





	Flicker

**Author's Note:**

> My Prompt: Harry has been famous since he was a year old, and since the death of Voldemort he's only got more famous. Naturally that attracts the attention of some weirdos, some of whom are more determined to get to Harry than others.  
> (extras: stalking, non-con, psychological torture, kidnapping)  
> from LeontinaBowie
> 
>  
> 
> Please be aware that this story includes use of the magical equivalent of a date rape drug, kidnapping, graphic non-con used during psychological torture, misogynistic speech used by Harry (as a lie/manipulation), hate speech toward Draco Malfoy, brief mention of mental health issues relating to sensory overload, briefly mentioned canon-typical childhood abuse, claiming of one's assumed virginity, virginity argument, unsafe sex (no use of condom or magical equivalent), implied triggers, implied PTSD, hospital visits, broken bones, and there is always a possibility that more graphic or upsetting content didn't make it to the tags. I tried to be as inclusive as possible in the warnings, but it is impossible to know how a story like this will effect everyone.
> 
> Huge thank you to the Mods for allowing me this opportunity.  
> My gratitude and undying love goes to unicornsandphoenix for being such an amazing beta and being incredibly supportive of my progress with this fic. Your enthusiasm was invaluable to me while I wrote this fic.

Harry looked down at his mobile. Draco’s name lit up the screen for the second time in the last five minutes. He considered not answering at all, but ignoring the call a second time would only add to the argument he knew was coming.

“I’m out front,” Harry said without bothering to say ‘hello’.  

“Where the fuck have you been?” Draco demanded.

“I told you. We had an appointment at the ministry. It took longer than—” the line went dead. Harry continued anyway, “expected.”

Harry made his way up the sidewalk to the front door of the townhouse he shared with Draco. He took a deep breath and slipped his key into the lock.

Once inside, he twisted the knob on the deadbolt, holding on until the magic in the lock activated. The entryway table was covered in letters. He would have to renew the wards against fanmail soon. It was getting ridiculous again. Harry scooped up the envelopes and carried them to the kitchen where he would undoubtedly vanish most of them without being opened.

Draco stomped into the kitchen dressed in muggle clothing that probably cost too much and that Harry probably wasn’t allowed to touch. Even with the scowl on his face, Draco was beautiful. Harry wished he could pull off those layers. The jacket, the waistcoat, the tie, letting everything fall to the floor until he could just have Draco. There wasn’t time for that. There never seemed to be time for that anymore.

“You were supposed to be here an hour ago,” Draco said.

Harry nodded.

“You don’t have anything to say?”

He didn’t want to fight. He really didn’t want it, but he walked right into it, “I tried to say something less than five minutes ago and you hung up on me.”

“Fucking ‘sorry’ would have been a better starting place,” Draco said. “I get it. You had shit to do at the ministry. Hermione needed your support for the house elf legislation or the werewolf protection act or whatever the fuck else she needs one of us for this time. You promised me you would be here for this. Pansy is our friend. She deserves our support, too.”

“Okay,” Harry said.  

“She may not be out there trying to start political revolutions, but this show means a lot to her. If her designs do well tonight, there’s a real chance for her to work with some of the top names in her industry. I know you may not think it’s important, but it matters to her,” Draco said.

“I’ve still got a half hour to get ready. You can be mad at me later,” Harry said.

Draco crossed his arms and glared at him.

“Draco, I’m sorry,” Harry said, reaching out to him.  

Draco leaned back before Harry’s hand reached his arm. Draco looked away from Harry and asked, “Your outfit is still in the garment bag, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll meet you at Bean and Vine. We’re having drinks there before the show, and we’re going to meet up there again after the show for more drinks. It’s likely to be a long night,” Draco said.

Harry was relieved to hear the edge in Draco’s voice soften.

“Then I’m glad I get to spend it with you,” Harry said.

“Please don’t forget to lock the door on your way out. You left it open again when you left this morning,” Draco said.

Harry knew he hadn’t; it was possible that Draco only said that for lack of anything else to say. He let Draco have that last word.  He didn’t know what he kept doing to piss him off so much lately, but he was ready for today to be over. After today, he would have an entire weekend to keep Draco in bed, preferably naked, to make up for being so busy.

Harry thumbed through the letters, only keeping one from Narcissa, and vanished the others before getting dressed for the show.

 

Harry took the garment bag out of the closet, Pansy’s note still pinned to the front. He read the list aloud, imitating her voice as he went.

“Jeans are distressed enough of their own, don’t tug at the frayed edges,” He unzipped the bag. He loved that she was having him dress in ripped clothes. If she called it fashion, there’s no way Draco could scold him for it. “Shirttails are to be worn loose. Don’t tuck them. Leave top three buttons open on the shirt. Waistcoat should be buttoned. Jacket left open. Tie your shoes.”

He pulled everything out of the bag, ending with the gold and scarlet trainers. Harry smiled. “Subtle, Pansy.” He looked over the items and froze. There was no jacket.  

There had been a jacket. He saw it when she sent the bag over. It had been on the same hanger as the waistcoat. He knew with absolute certainty that the jacket went back onto the hanger and into the bag because Draco made a big deal of it. Draco said the jacket wasn’t sitting on the hanger properly, adjusted it and zipped the bag over it.

“He’s going to lose his shit,” Harry said to himself. “Pansy might murder me.”

Harry spent several minutes looking for the jacket. He even tried an _Accio_. The jacket was gone. “Fuck.” He assumed it would be safer to go without than to pull on something else he owned. But where the fuck did it go?

 

* * *

 

“Harry, you make my work look amazing!” Pansy said, wine glass in hand. The Bean and Vine Cafe was packed with people drinking coffee, wine, or both. “Is it too warm for the jacket? I knew it might be a problem.”

“It is July,” he said, relieved he didn’t have to explain the missing piece.

“It’s perfect without it, but here,” she said, placing her glass on the bar, “let’s roll the sleeves up.”

Harry held still for her to spell the sleeves into the folds she wanted.  

“Oh, that’s better. Merlin, that looks perfect. Okay, I have to mingle. Now, please, go around telling everyone I’m your favorite designer showing tonight. They’ll listen if it’s you saying it,” she said.

“I won’t even have to lie for you,” he said as she made her way into another crowd of people.

Harry found Draco almost immediately, “Not even late.”

Draco scoffed. “Cutting it close aren’t you? Where’s you jacket?”

“Pansy said I didn’t need it.”

“Did you wear it?”

“It doesn’t matter. Pansy’s happy, we’re on time, and everything’s fine.”

Draco shook his head, “You didn’t wear it. I knew you hated it.”

“I couldn’t find it. And I didn’t hate it. I called it stupid ‘cause you made a big deal out of how it went on the hanger,” Harry said, having to make an effort not to raise his voice.

“Pansy designed it herself,” he said.

“Pansy was happy with the way I’m dressed,” Harry said, “Now are you going to tell me why you’ve been treating me like your personal fucking punching bag all evening, or should I trade seats with someone else?”

Draco closed his eyes and took a breath. “I can’t stop. I hear myself being a prick and I can’t stop. I’ve been struggling with sensory overload for days. I’m so overstimulated, I just want to scratch my eyes out.”

“Well, if that would help...” Harry said.

“Yeah, but it wouldn’t stop the noise would it?” Draco said. “I’m sorry, Harry. God. I’m so sorry. Let me just get through this night and I swear I’ll make it up to you. You’ve got time to get a drink if you want. You can apparate straight over to the convention hall, but I think I would rather walk. I could use a few minutes of air.”

It was obvious that Harry was not invited to walk with him, so he decided to get a drink. He let out a heavy sigh and turned to the bar.

“Rough day, Harry?” the bartender asked.

“No,” he answered. He looked to see if he actually knew the man but didn’t recognize him. “Can I get a coffee, please?” Harry asked. He had no energy to be friendly to strangers who did not believe themselves to be strangers; polite would have to do.

“You willing to wait six minutes? The barista just started the next brew,” he said.

“Never mind,” Harry said.

“I can give you a wine for the price of a coffee,” he said.

“Fine,” Harry said. He didn’t want to argue with a bartender. When the man came back with his glass, Harry slid him enough money to cover the full cost of his drink and left it on the bar after only a sip. He knew Draco needed space, but he would much rather be without Draco while surrounded by their friends waiting for him than to be without him while drinking alone.

* * *

 

Draco arrived a polite fifteen minutes before the first models took the runway. He held Harry’s hand at all the appropriate moments, posed with all the proper gestures, and looked rich in front of all the cameras. Draco stepped into this role like he wrote the script himself. Harry loved and hated it. Harry knew every little gesture and expression; by now he knew them all. He knew enough that it was obvious Draco was miserable.

Draco bit his lip when he smiled. He brushed his hair out of his eyes using only his index finger. He took a slow deep breath before he joined any part of a conversation. Harry could see it. He wanted so badly to take him home, to get him out of the clothes Pansy put on them, to protect Draco from the entire world the same way Draco protected Harry. The drinks at the after-party could not end soon enough.

Harry led Draco to the bar to get him away from a group of models that kept asking him about his skincare routine. Harry slipped his hand into Draco’s and pulled away from the most crowded areas.  

“So, you reckon we can slip out of here soon?” Harry asked. “I can’t wait to get you alone.”

“Not tonight,” Draco said, shaking his head.

“I didn’t specifically mean _that_. We can just be there together,” Harry said. He smiled at Draco, trying to catch his eyes. “I’ll be quiet.”

“I know what you meant. No. Not tonight. The guest room is clean. I’m leaving now. I’ll see you in the morning,” Draco said, turning toward the exit.

“You’re kidding.”

Draco stopped. He looked back at Harry.

Harry continued, “You really want to stay in the guest room just for some quiet? I know the rules. I won’t touch, I’ll be quiet-”

“No.” Draco interrupted. “I didn’t intend to stay in the guest room myself.”

“You’re kicking me out of my own room?”

“It’s ours.”

“Yes, ours. You can’t kick me out just because you’re having a shitty few days. You take the damned spare room. I’ve done nothing but try to help you. Support you. Now you’re shutting me out?” Harry asked.

“This isn’t about you,” Draco said. “For once, something isn’t about you.”

“Fuck you.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“The hell you didn’t. I know how you get, and I expect you to be a prick to an extent. This is just ridiculous, though. I do my best not to take your mood swings personally, but you’re being right fucking hateful. Did it feel good to take such a cheap shot? Huh?” Harry said, making sure to keep his voice down. He knew he always had eyes on him. No matter how angry he was or how public this was, Harry refused to make his anger with Draco a spectacle.

Neither of them spoke as Harry counted to ten in his head. He probably could have made it to twenty before Draco finally broke their silence.

“I’m going home. Are you coming?” Draco asked.

Without a response, Harry turned and had a seat at the bar. He could see Draco’s reflection in the polished surfaces. He watched Draco, unsure if he wanted Draco to leave or reach out. When Draco left, he was sure. He wanted Draco to reach out.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” a voice said.

He was less shocked than annoyed to see the same bartender from earlier. The Bean and Vine wasn’t a regular stop for him. If he had met this bartender before, he couldn’t remember it. More likely than not, this guy has just seen Harry in any newspaper or magazine sold in the past few years. As soon as he thought they would get tired of him, the media would find his unmatched socks to be the height of trendsetting and the cameras would flood back into his life or some such rot.

“Need a listening ear? I hear bartenders are pretty good at it,” he said.

“Sure. I wanted to stay for one more drink and my boyfriend wanted to go home, so we compromised. Sorry to bore you,” Harry said.

“You don’t have to lie to me,” he said, leaning against the bar in front of Harry.  

“Excuse me?” Harry sat up a little straighter, gaining just a bit more space between them.

“I said, you don’t have to talk to me. You look like you want a drink and some privacy. Tell you what. Drink’s on me. You didn’t drink your glass of wine earlier, so we can consider it a remake,” the man said.

Harry watched as he took a glass from beneath the bar, dropped in a couple cubes of ice and poured a honey-colored bourbon up to the halfway point. He slid the glass toward Harry without a word.

“I don’t want this. If you’re avoiding opening another bottle of wine, a beer is fine,” Harry said.

“You sure? It’s the one nice thing I picked up during my few years in the US. A little bit of what they called ‘southern hospitality’ and a love for bourbon whiskey,” he said. He didn’t offer to exchange the drink and since Harry wasn’t paying, he decided to just take the drink.

Harry sat and watched as the bartenders served drinks to the remaining party guests. He noticed his bartender even running light interference, keeping unwanted company away as he sipped the whiskey he didn’t order. Maybe the guy wasn’t so bad after all.  He did leave Harry alone after their initial conversation.

Harry lost himself watching as the two bartenders pulled wine glasses and champagne flutes from the rack above the bar filling them for the cocktail waitresses. The sounds of too many conversations became a distorted blur behind him. Mixed drinks poured from shakers making liquid art in bright colors were handed to ladies in expensive dresses. Shots and liquors on the rocks poured into glasses taken from the shelf against the back wall...the back wall.

He sat there much longer than he intended. Draco would surely have had enough time to unwind. He needed to get to Draco. The liquids in the glasses glittering under the lights. Stupid. The glasses against the back wall were brought down to the bar before being filled with ice. The back wall…

Harry needed to go. He’d finished his drink even though it wasn’t his preferred kind of liquor. His free glass of bourbon. Stupid. The glass that had not come from...the back wall.

Harry’s heart started pounding in his chest. How could he have been so stupid? He took the mobile from his pocket and dialed Draco’s number.  

What did he drink? Stupid. Stupid. No salty taste. No bitter or medicinal taste. Smelled just like the drink should have.  

His phone in his hand instructed him to leave a voicemail.

Silent. Draco wanted quiet.

Saltwater.  

Harry leaned forward, nearly losing his seat, practically climbing over the bar. The bottled water sitting just within reach.

From below the bar.

Unscrewed the lid from the salt shaker. Made his own cocktail in the glass he’d upended onto the bar. Half-melted ice skittered onto the floor.

Saltwater.

Get it up. Out. Get it out.  

Not caring if he got sick in front of a crowd. Draw attention. Make them look at you. Make someone notice.

Stupid.

Phone someone. Ron. He’d come. Draco needed quiet.

He raised the saltwater to his lips. A hand covered the rim of the glass.

Ron’s voice in his ear.  

“Hello.”

Nothing.

“Hello?”

Harry’s words stuck in his mouth.

“Harry?”

“I’ll help you. I’ve got you.” Not Ron.  

Not you. Not you.

An arm around him, the saltwater gone. Mobile phone gone.

Walking out of the bar. Not Ron’s arm around him.

Too quiet outside.

Not Draco’s hands on his waist.

Home, he tried to say.  

Nausea, so dizzy, can’t say ‘home’. Just want to go home.

“I’ll take you home.”

Not you.

“It’s okay, baby. I’ll take you home.”

Not you.

“I know where you belong.”

 

* * *

 

Harry woke to sounds that did not belong in his room. A ticking clock. Draco needed quiet. None of the clocks ticked in their house.

“Ron?” Harry’s voice gravelly and painful. He choked on his single word. His eyes burned and head throbbed, his neck ached from falling asleep in a bad position. It was too dark. No sky, no window, no light, no. Harry tried rub his fists against his stinging eyes. He couldn’t move. He was stuck.

His wand? He couldn’t feel the press of his wand against his leg. The hidden sheath in the ripped jeans was empty. He felt heavy. Harry felt panic starting to creep over him. His heart started racing and he couldn’t breathe. An arm. Someone had their arm over him.

“It’s okay, shh,” said a voice behind him.

He gasped. He recognized the voice. The weird hybrid accent. The fucking bartender. He remembered. Harry remembered how he got here.

The bastard shushed him again. “It’s me, baby. You’re just having another nightmare.”

Baby? Harry stopped having nightmares over a year ago. Well, he stopped having those nightmares.

“No,” Harry tried to say, though it came out as more of a groan. He struggled to push himself up but didn’t move.

“It’s me. It’s Curtis. I’ve got you. Deep breath, baby,” he said against the back of Harry’s neck. The breath against him made his skin crawl. The pet name made him want to vomit. He wanted to vomit anyway.

“Careful, sweet one. You weren’t supposed to drink that much. I thought you’d leave after the first sip again. I’m a patient man, but patient doesn’t mean I can’t help things along with something a bit more deliberate,” he said.

“Wh—” Harry choked on his words, coughing and gasping for a full breath.

“Don’t talk. You’ve worried me to death. If I knew you would drink it, I wouldn’t give you so much. You don’t have to worry, Harry,” Curtis said, “after a bit more sleep, you’ll be just fine. I thought you stopped breathing a couple times. The paralysis is normal, but not to this extent.”

Harry decided that the sound of his name in this bastards mouth was worse than the pet names.

Curtis pressed a kiss onto Harry’s shoulder and pulled him tighter. Harry pulled his magic to him, but it refused to do anything more than shimmer beneath his skin. He could do little more than breathe. His muscles refused to work, eyes refused to open, but the tears came. Harry sobbed as the tears trailed from his eyes. His frustration, his anger, pushed him to stay conscious. Harry had to find out where he was, how to get out. Another kiss against neck was more than he could bear. Tears weren’t enough.

Harry screamed.

Something dug into his ribs sending white hot flashes of pain through his chest.  

Harry fought. He forced himself to focus on his breathing but seconds, or minutes, of this pain and his screams pulled him under.

 

* * *

 

When Harry woke, he could smell Draco. Specifically, he could smell the Armani cologne Draco stopped wearing weeks ago when he misplaced his bottle. He opened his eyes to the sight of someone who was not Draco wearing Draco’s oversized t-shirt he slept in a couple nights a week.  

“It’s about time you woke up. I was starting to worry,” Curtis said.

Harry tried to answer. He felt like he was in one of Voldemort’s visions, but this was more like a sloppy. He was seeing through his own eyes which meant he shouldn’t be able to see shit. His glasses were on the table beside him. The curtains were pulled back from the window. Harry hated waking to light. Aunt Petunia opening the cupboard door and pulling the chain on the bare bulb hanging from the low ceiling flashed in his mind.  

The memory was vivid but fleeting, almost like it was being physically pushed out of view. Just outside his line of sight, the colors seemed to flicker. He couldn’t see the color of the blankets.  He couldn’t see anything out the window except light. This wasn’t real. Harry was unsure how much of this was an illusion, but he knew a large part of it had to be.

“Well, this is unexpected,” Curtis said. “I knew you were good, but I thought your ability to shrug this off would be magic-based. You are full of surprises.”

Harry focused on the blankets. He knew those weren’t real. He saw that he wasn’t sitting in a bed. He was in a chair. He was tied to a chair.

“I’ll start over as many times as I need to. We have nothing but time,” Curtis said.

The sick and sinking feeling only got worse when his consciousness faded into something like sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

Arms wrapped around him from behind. This was Hogwarts. The supply closet in the potions classroom was immediately recognizable. The hands on him were not. Something wasn’t right. This wasn’t how it happened. Draco hadn’t kissed the back of his neck before pushing his back against the wall.  

Harry wanted to close his eyes, to take himself a world away from here in his head, but he realized near immediately that he was already inside his own head. Curtis was tampering with a memory that Harry wanted to keep for himself. The hands pulling at his belt then at his trousers should have been hesitant and shaking. Draco had been nervous. They had never done this before.

Curtis was trying to overlay himself in this memory. Harry fought. He pushed back, trying to break out of the polluted memory. Curtis fell to his knees in front of him. Harry had to fight. He had to break out.

He refused to let him take this. Harry found the flicker. The light glinting off a glass jar of herbs flashed in a harsh staccato. Harry watched the flicker until he felt it like he felt his own panicked heartbeat. Harry closed the memory off, pushed him out, but not before he felt Curtis’ mouth close over him.

 

* * *

 

“You need to relax,” Curtis said, his voice echoing off the walls of the room.  

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Harry said. He felt the bile rising in his throat and begged himself not to vomit.

“I’ve been sitting right here,” he said.  

Harry looked up to see Curtis in a chair he assumed matched his own.

Curtis continued, “I haven’t moved. You’re just remembering some of the good times we’ve had.”

Harry pulled at his bindings. He had never felt so trapped in his life. He looked around, trying to find any indication that he was still trapped in his head. When nothing looked off, he turned back to Curtis.

Harry scoffed. “You’re so stupid.”

“That’s not very nice.”

“You think if you dress the part I’ll just fall in Stockholm-love with you and everything will be daisies and sunshine?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The watch you’re wearing that no fucking bartender could afford. The Armani cologne you used way too much of, and the jacket?”

“You like when I wear these things. You bought them for me,” Curtis said.

“Like I said. Stupid. I don’t know how long you’ve been breaking into my house and stealing his shit. I don’t know how you’re getting into my head without a wand, but maybe you should have paid more attention. That’s not Draco’s jacket. It’s mine,” Harry said.

“Don’t say that name. I got it out of our closet,” Curtis said. The straining in his voice was move evident the longer he spoke. “Merlin, Dumbledore, and the Minister of Magic couldn’t get you to wear something like this.”

“Pansy could,” Harry said. “So how are you doing it? No wand. I doubt you have enough control to go wandless for much of anything. You can’t even control the conversation.”

Curtis pushed out of his chair and closed the distance between them before crouching down at Harry’s side. He reached out of Harry’s line of sight. When he brought a glass of water-looking liquid to Harry’s lips, Harry laughed.

“Fucking potions,” Harry said, realizing immediately what was happening. “You’ve got the magic sealed off from here, don’t you? You know I could take you out on even footing.”

“Drink up, baby,” Curtis said.

“Not bloody likely,” Harry said. “You know, potions and poisons are witches’ weapons.” He knew several witches who would wage wars and burn cities if they heard him say something so hateful, but he had to keep Curtis from feeling like he was in control. Harry guessed that Curtis was the type to believe being compared to a woman was an insult. Harry guess correctly.

Curtis took Harry’s jaw in a bruising grip forcing the glass to his mouth again. “Drink up or I bring in the feeding tube. You need to drink something. You’re already showing signs of severe dehydration. Much longer, and you could suffer from kidney failure.”

“How long have I been here?” Harry asked. It felt like less than twelve hours, but his body protested this assumption.

“Don’t worry about it. Now drink this or you get the tube,” he said. Though his tone was sickeningly sweet, the threat lingered at the edges. “I’ve never intubated anyone before. I can’t promise it won’t hurt all the way down.”

Harry slammed his head back against the high back of the wooden chair, swearing under his breath. It was going to happen either way. He opened his mouth. It tasted like water. Mostly like water. There was something acidic that followed. Harry almost choked on it when he felt Curtis press his lips against his arm and move up to his shoulder in a line that made Harry want to peel his own skin off.

Harry didn’t expect Curtis to touch him physically. Not this soon, anyway. His fading consciousness grated on him. If Curtis was going to do anything to him, no matter how how unbearable, he would rather know exactly what happened.

 

* * *

 

Harry was standing in his kitchen. Curtis met him at the table with a plate of food. His eyes focused on an onion bagel.

“Your favorite,” Curtis said.  

Harry shook his head. He looked for the gap in the memory, the flicker. He found it almost immediately. All the blue in the room went grey every couple seconds.

“No, they’re not,” Harry said. He gave Curtis a cold smile as he focused his eyes on any blue item he could see.  

“Yes, they are. You always have fresh onion bagels in your kitchen. You bring them home all the time,” Curtis argued.

“They’re Draco’s favorite.”

Curtis’ glared at him as the illusion crumbled around them. Harry’s vision faded until the empty room came back into focus.

 

“Don’t say that name,” Curtis said.

“Not just breaking and entering, huh? You watch me. You follow me.”

“Shut up,” Curtis snapped. He was still in the same position on his knees at Harry’s side. Not much time had passed this time. The glass was still in front of him. “You’ve got to do better about finishing your drinks. I didn’t want to increase the dose on you again, but it looks like you’re not going to stop fighting me.”

“Nope.”  Harry knew he was making things worse for himself, but it felt wrong to give up. He refused to just do as he was told. He didn’t know what the endgame was, but if he ever got there, it was going to be because he had no fight left in him.  

“I was saving this, but you’re not letting me in,” Curtis said against Harry’s shoulder. The brush of lips against his skin made him shiver around the ice forming in his stomach.

Curtis disappeared from sight, the sounds of liquid and clinking glass behind him making Harry dread whatever came next. Harry squeezed his hands into fists, the fabric of his jeans and the harsh dig of the rope helping him ground himself in the moment. He knew this was real. He knew whatever was coming was not going to be real.

“Remember this, Harry,” he whispered to himself. He focused on the position of his body. His fists tied to the chair near his hips, his ankles bound to the front two legs of the smooth wooden chair, and the high back of the chair that blocked his view of the room behind him, these things were real. The stagnant air, his unbrushed teeth, the irritating way his glasses were sitting too low on his nose. These things were real. What came next, whether it was in his head or not, he refused to let it be real.

When Curtis straddled his lap, Harry refused to react. When he felt the tip of a blade press against his skin, he refused to react. The press of metal at the bend of his elbow didn’t matter. He wouldn’t let it matter.  

“Open up,” Curtis said. His breath was hot against Harry’s ear. Harry wouldn’t let it matter.

He felt the blade light a fire down the length of his arm. Didn’t matter.

He felt the dittany knit his skin back together. Didn’t matter.

“I can keep this up longer than you can, but if you don’t want them to scar, you better crack before I run out of healing potions,” Curtis said.

Again the fire, again the pain extinguished. He was safe in his own mind, just counting. Counting nothing in particular, knowing he would never run out of numbers. His eyes were open, but he refused to see. There was no flicker to help him end this. He was here. But it didn’t matter. He tried not to be here, tried not to let his mind be pulled back into focus when the blade was pushed against his lips.

“Open up.”

Harry would let Curtis use the knife on him before he’d willingly take the potion again. If he wanted to cut his mouth open, let him. It didn’t matter.

Curtis hesitated. He dropped the knife to the floor. Something worse. Curtis must have thought of something worse. Harry felt the palm of a hand pressed against his mouth, the hand moving upward until his air was blocked. His nose pinched between a finger and thumb, but it’s okay. He wouldn’t give in. This was hardly the worst thing that could happen to him. His heart raced, lungs burned, body shook, but it didn’t matter because Harry wouldn’t let this be real. He tried to shake off the hand pressed against his face, succeeding only in grinding his head against the back of the chair. His vision blackened at the edges. Not a flicker, but a fading.

Air rushed into Harry’s lungs. He breathed heavily, his sinuses burning with each heaving breath. His lips never parted. Harry refused to give in, and he kept on counting.

Again, the hand pressed against his mouth. Again he reached the edge of consciousness. And again and again. His body betrayed him. Harry gasped. His mind let go, his mouth open desperate for air, the potion hit the back of his throat, and a mouth covered his own. Lips pressed against his. It was swallow or choke. He chose to choke. His body overruled the decision.

The acid of the potion burned the whole way down. He hated himself for losing. He tried to pull away, but the lips against his face moved in an obscene way against his. He froze. His body refused to obey. In his lap, hips ground forward, hands on his chest. This wasn’t real. No matter what happened. It was not allowed to be real. When the edges of his vision faded this time, no amount of air brought back clarity.

 

* * *

 

Harry could feel the passing of time, the blur of more potions, failed attempts at getting into his mind. Even torture and threats hadn’t weakened his determination not to give in. His body ached, screamed, protested, but his mind found every flicker, every time. 

Curtis cracked before Harry did. His frustration evident as he cursed under his breath when his potion failed yet again to give him full access to Harry’s mind and memories.  

The room was a blurry mess. The air was stale around them. Harry felt like he was starving and certainly dehydrated, but still he fought. His magic had long since burned to embers within him leaving only anger and spite to fuel him.  

That was okay, Harry told himself. Curtis had begun to crack. He got sloppy and violent. Eventually, he would give Harry an opening to fight back and maybe even escape. The door. He needed to be conscious when Curtis opened the door. If only he had his magic. He could get out of his bindings. He could manage the rest. He just needed one free hand.

His mind was bleary from exhaustion, but he saw the syringe the moment it came into view. The alcohol was cold on his skin, the antiseptic smell was enough to make him gag. Evidently, drinking the potions was never going to give Curtis the results he wanted. When the needle put the potion under Harry’s skin, his muscles contracted against its effects. His body tried to protect him but failed spectacularly.

There was no transition, no fade to black, Harry was immediately on his stomach in bed with hands on him. Not Draco’s hands. Everything flickered. This was not a modified old memory. Curtis was planting something entirely new.  

He knew what was coming. The mouth against his neck and shoulders, then hands against his inner thigh. He knew. He knew and hated him. Hated Curtis. Harry wouldn’t do this with anyone. Not with his exes, not with Draco. This was beyond what felt safe or comfortable even in the best situations.  

“He couldn’t make you feel good.”

Harry was hyperventilating, desperately scrambling to push himself from the sheets under his naked body. Hands held Harry’s wrists in an iron grip and pressed them into the mattress above his head.

“No one has been man enough to know how to make you feel good. You need a cock like mine,” the voice behind him rasped.

It’s only in my head, it’s only in my head, in my head in my head in my head, Harry repeated. Over and over he begged himself to know that this was in his head. And like the echos in a nightmare, of all bloody things, Dumbledore’s words clawed into his thoughts.  _Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?_

Not real. This isn’t real. Not real. Not happening, only in my head. I’m in a chair. I’m wearing jeans with holes in them. I’m in a waistcoat and a white shirt. It won’t last forever. The flickers are everywhere. Focus on that. Get out. A tongue trailed up his spine in a slimy line and Harry sobbed. A verbalized fear ripped right from his throat. Not real. He’s in a room in a chair in hell in a room in a chair not a bed not real. Please no.

“It’s real. You’re right here with me,” he said against Harry’s skin. “I’m going to take such good care of you. You’ll know what a real man can do for you. How good I’m going to make this for you. You’ll love it. You’ll love me.”

Harry wasn’t surprised that the man could hear his thoughts. They were surrounded in nothing but thought. He shut his eyes tightly, pulling at the hands holding him down.

“Look how bad you want it.”

No.

“Baby, I said look.”

Harry didn’t open his eyes, not really, but that didn’t matter. The scene in his head was playing out exactly the way Curtis was directing it. The mirror lining the wall appeared the moment Curtis insisted that Harry look. He saw everything. The length of his body pinned down. The flickers emphasizing every shadow, the white-knuckled grip Harry had on the sheet, but Harry refused to look at the body above him. He refused to look at it. He kept his eyes on the flickering colors of the drapery.

“You have never had it so good,” he said, running his hands down the length of Harry’s body. The hands felt wrong. Harry fought, pulled, but his mind was not in control of the body he was in. Not his body. Just a body. His body would have been able to fight back. Been able to lift his clenched fists from the mattress, to kick, to scream, anything. This body couldn’t be his.

“Please, no. Stop. Please stop,” Harry said. The words making actual sound, jarred him for a moment. He was breaking free. He was-

Curtis pushed Harry’s legs apart. Harry felt a weight pushing down the mattress between his knees.

“Please, no. Please no please no,” Harry repeated; the words became a plea, a prayer, and a mantra. The colors were fading into a solid block of grey. He had it. If only he fought more. If only he fought harder, he could stop this.

“Baby, you know I love it when you beg me to make love to you,” the hand was back between his legs, touching him in way he never enjoyed, slick and cold. “I’m going to fuck you so good. You’ll love me. You’ll be a new man. I know you want me.”

The smell of the room with the chair returned to him. The perfume smell of the false memory fading away until the smell of spilled potions, unwashed clothes, and stagnant air filled Harry’s lungs and fingers dug into Harry’s hips. The weight on the mattress shifted.

“I love you, baby,” the voice said. The sounds of a bedroom overlooking a busy street was replaced by the hollow sound of a room with one door and now windows.

I can do this, Harry told himself. I can get out if only I’m strong enough. If I fight back, this won’t happen. It’s all in my head. I can stop this.

The press of a chest against his back crushed the hope out of him but in its wake, a revived determination took hold.

“Stop!” Harry’s voice rang out. He felt it in this body and his real body. The vision was fading, the flickers all pulsing in unison gathering into a single point of discoloration, he was almost out. He wouldn’t give up. He wouldn’t fail.

“Baby, you make me so fucking hard when you beg for my meat like that.”

The words made Harry cringe.

A body pressed against Harry, his legs held apart, he had to fight.

Harry pulled so hard at the edge of the flicker, grasping at it like the edge of old wallpaper ready to rip it away–a burn in his arm blossomed with what Harry knew was another syringe full of the potion.

The body above Harry thrust forward, pushed its way into his body. Harry wasn’t strong enough. The flickers scattered, the color was back, the perfumed air of a bedroom filled his nostrils, and the heat of the skin pumped against him in a sickening rhythm that echoed “failed, failed, failed, failed,” as he begged his mind to remember this was not his body.

“Look at that, baby. You’re not a virgin anymore,” the voice said.

Wasn’t before, Harry thought.

“You were a virgin before I made love to you.”

No, I wasn’t, Harry’s thought.

“You feel so good inside,” the voice said.

The voice kept going, and Harry struggled to retreat into his own mind. This was impossible. The man above him had violated every accessible point in his mind. He was here. He was stuck right here, under a man he had come to hate.

“That’s right. You’re right here.”

Harry pulled his focus from this body, not his body, not his real body, and counted. If he counted high enough, it would be over. It would stop. By the time he reached fifty, the man had changed his movements to match Harry’s count. The man took away Harry’s distraction. Moving slower than before, breathing hot and wet against Harry’s neck, the man won.

The potion was taking over his real body while this man took over this one. The man was pulling fake thoughts and sensations over Harry’s real thoughts, making this body feel things Harry was ashamed to feel. What was once a sharp, visceral agony was slowly becoming something else.

He refused to acknowledge that the pain had lessened. Minutes dragged by and Harry fought not to feel the drag and press of a body inside his own. He fought not to hear the words whispered to him, the mouth on the back of his neck. Harry begged for this to be over, to end quickly.  

“We have all the time in the world, baby.”

Harry hated this body. Hated the way it was starting to respond. Hated that he was too weak to fight the illusion, to fight the potion.  

Harry willed every last bit of focus he had not on the invasion of his body, the fingers locked around his hips, the mouth on his neck, but only on the tears running down his face. The burn in his eyes, the trails down the bridge of his nose, his cheeks. These were his refuge. The tears that ran hot down his skin, flowing steadily until the man above him released inside this body, the body he refused to see as his own.

Those tears were the only thing that happened here. The only memory he would accept. The rest didn’t matter.

 

Harry opened his eyes. The front of his dirty, button-down shirt was damp with tears, his face puffy from crying. He did it. He survived it. The tears were real. The tears were the only thing that happened. His body screamed in pain, but not in the places they would have if anything else had been real. Harry took what was meant to be a deep, cleansing breath. It escaped him in a scream he didn’t think would ever end.

 

* * *

 

Harry woke to an empty room. It was a rare occurrence. Curtis couldn’t keep track of Harry from outside the room, so he stayed close.  

He took a shaky breath, his chest aching with the effort. He lost track of how long he was in the chair, but his body felt every second of it. Dehydration and hunger were now constant, and the trips into the hellscape Curtis prepared each time were wearing him down, but this was the limit of what he could take. He decided he would not go through that again. He couldn’t.

“I tried, Draco. I did. I just can’t do this anymore,” Harry said. He was going to get out of this room today or die trying.

Harry heard the door open. Curtis came back into the room. The open door let in more than the kidnapper. It also let in air a bit less stagnant than that in the room. He heard a car pass, noise from people who had no idea he was right here filtered in through the opened door. And there, for the barest of moments, magic. He felt magic. Not the polluted garbage that oozed from Curtis. He felt Draco’s magic. How close was this place to his home? How many times has Draco walked past him since he’s been here?

Curtis looked at Harry with murder in his eyes, “I told you not to say that name. He doesn’t matter. He’s gone.” He held the knife toward Harry but didn’t move from his place near the door.  

Harry was ready. He was ready to get out of this room. One way or another, Harry would not spend another night here.  

“What are you going to do, you piece of shit?” Harry challenged. “You’re never going to get what you want from me. You are just a miserable little fuck who could never deserve me.”

Harry pulled on every terrible memory, every invasion of his privacy, every single stranger who spoke to him like he owed them something. He thought of everything he could and would use every word he could as a weapon. He had nothing, no wand, no access to his magic, and he wouldn’t lie for this man. Harry would fight back the only way he had left. He knew he had to make Curtis angry. He would make a mistake and Harry could find a way out, or Curtis would kill him. Each minute here was killing him anyway.

“Look at me,” Curtis said. “You really think that murderer deserves you? You think Malfoy is good enough? I’ve given you everything. If you let me fix it, you could be happy. You could learn to love me all on your own.”

“Fix? You call that fixing it? You can’t even manage to alter the memories you were able to get into. I’m rubbish at occlumency and you still couldn’t make me like you. When you touch me, physically or in my head, I feel nothing but hate and nausea. You will never be anything to me. You won’t be my lover. You won’t be my hero. You won’t even have the satisfaction of being my arch-nemesis, my worst memory, or even the first or only person to kill me. And I bet your pathetic arse just can’t fucking stand that, yeah?”

“Shut up! Shut up!” Curtis screamed. He shook his head, never quite taking his eyes off Harry.

“You can’t claim me. You are nothing. You think you’ve hurt me worse than anyone? That was Voldemort. Think you can take everything away from me? The only things I have worth keeping can’t be taken. You think you’ll be special if you kill me? Well, I’ve been killed before, you won’t even be the first one listed in the biography you know they’ll write.”

“You’re not getting away from me. If you’re trying to get me to kill you, then give up. You’re mine.”

“The hell I am,” Harry said, leaning toward him, his wrists pulling against his restraints. “You say _I’m_ yours? The clothes you’re wearing aren’t yours; the cologne you’re wearing isn’t yours, this room isn’t yours. This whole idea may have been yours though.  It is terrible enough…”

“Stop it! Why couldn’t you just do what I told you. You fought me. I had it all—”

“You’ve had nothing from the moment you fucking laid eyes on me and you know it. I’m not yours and I never will be. I may be stuck here. You can fuck with my memories until I don’t remember anything but your unimpressive face. You could turn me into a ruddy lampshade. You can lock me away until the sun explodes, but I will never be yours.”

“You think not?” Curtis said, no longer shouting. An eerie calm settled over his face.

Harry knew this was it. If anything was going to happen, it was going to happen soon.  

“I didn’t want to do this. It’s going to take you so much longer to get over this one.” Curtis stomped right up to Harry’s chair in the middle of the room, knife held at a constant height level with Harry’s chin. “You don’t think I can break you? You don’t think I will be willing to pick up all those pieces and put you back together so that you want me? Love me?”

This was it. Harry never broke eye contact, and for the first time since the night of Pansy’s show, he smiled. “Try it, you pathetic, trash wizard.”

Harry watched as the last of Curtis’ control shattered. He stared at Harry, shaking and panting. The calm before the storm had come to an end. “I’m ready. I’ve been waiting for it to come to this,” Curtis said.

When Harry refused to react, Curtis screamed and brought the knife across Harry’s chest in the same shallow cut as before. Pain burned across Harry’s skin, still he did nothing but smile up at Curtis.  

The blood covered knife quivered in Curtis’ white knuckled grip.  

This was it.

Curtis bared his teeth in a grimace.

This was it.

He screamed wordlessly and buried his hand in Harry’s hair. He leaned down to look into Harry’s eyes. “You did this.”

Harry waited for the blade to pierce his skin. Waited for this to be over.  

This was it.

Curtis’ knuckles came down across Harry’s cheek, bone crunching under the force, and he knew. Harry knew Curtis wasn’t going to kill him. He’d let go of the knife. The rage in Curtis’ eyes were more severe than the pain in Harry’s broken face. Something else was coming. Harry just had to watch for some point of weakness. Curtis was too emotional; if he was going to make a mistake, it would be soon.

Curtis punched him again. Harry’s breath ripped out of him in a stifled whimper.  

“You’ll be sorry,” Curtis said, his breath hot against Harry’s face as he screamed down at him. He shoved Harry’s head back against the wooden back of the chair, turned, and started toward the door. Harry, through the fire blooming from the crushed bones in the left side of his face, could see his control slip away completely. He was going to make a mistake, and when he did, Harry would know. This ended today. Curtis ripped the door to the room open, and Harry felt it again. Draco.

Curtis left. Slammed the door so hard it bounced from the frame before it could latch.

This was it.

Harry should have been able to hear the footsteps leading away from the room, stomping down a staircase and into some other part of the house or whatever this hellhole was, but the waterfall crash of magic pouring into the room deafened him to everything.  

This was it. He did it. He could fight this. Harry scanned the room for the telltale flicker. He had to know this was real. It had to be real. Without a wand, the reintroduction to his magic was messy, but it was enough.  

Harry pulled at his magic, felt it coil inside him waiting for direction. He did his best to focus it on the bindings around his wrists and ankles. It felt like trying to swat a fly with sledgehammer. The leg of the chair collapsed under him. He hit the floor with a thud. The ache in every muscle was a constant screaming undertone as he kicked and pulled trying to free himself of the chair and the bindings. Days of sitting in one position left him weak and stiff; still, he fought.

After its absence, his magic made him feel high. Too much reckless power coursing through him with no focus. He should have heard them coming back, should have noticed a second set of footsteps.  

Curtis slammed the door open, knocking it off the hinges, plaster cracking around the frame.  

Harry’s whole world ground to a halt.  

He looked for the flicker. Nothing. There was nothing to tell him that he wasn’t seeing this, that Curtis wasn’t standing before him with a wand in one hand and his other in an iron grip around Draco’s neck.  

“No.” Harry refused to believe it. He could feel Draco’s magic. It felt too far away, but it was definitely Draco. No one could fake that. Identifying another person’s magical signature took time and a level of intimacy that even Curtis’ rifling through Harry’s memories couldn’t replicate. But there was no flicker.

It was still wrong somehow.

He struggled against the bindings until he could kick his leg free. Harry searched Draco's face, looking for even a hint that this was another manufactured vision. There were things Curtis wouldn't have known Harry would look for like the scar peeking out from the collar of his shirt or the way Draco’s hair curled at the tips.  But that wasn’t a look he’d ever seen on Draco’s face before. Draco didn’t cry unless he was sure he was alone, but the face he looked into was tear-stained and dirty. Even with the strip of cloth shoved between his teeth, Draco was begging for his life. His voice was high with panic. The meaning was unmistakable even if the words were unintelligible.

For all his doubts, Harry knew Curtis couldn’t fake this. The legilimency would leave a flicker somewhere in his vision. The magical signature he felt in the air, that was Draco. There was no mistaking that. He would know that magic as long as he lived. If he forgot everything, he would remember that.  

No matter how he had come to doubt everything he saw, he knew the magic was real.

The curse hit Draco in a wave of dim grey light. The screams ripped from Draco and Harry filled the room as Curtis held the curse. Draco fell to his knees shaking with the pain.

Harry’s thoughts begged ‘no’ but the sound that came from him was barely as human. The strength he found in his desperation helped him focus on the bindings. He freed his hands as the green light gathered at the tip of the wand in Curtis’ hand. With a desperate cry, Harry thrust his hand forward trying to concentrate into any spell he could manage.

Harry’s fear and anger were running too high and his control too low. Several points around the room burst into flames. He heard screaming, assumed it was Draco.

All that wordless rage poured forward and his scattered magic ripped from his fingertips in a wave of raw energy. The floorboards ripped up, ceiling tiles fell, and every muscle in Harry’s body shook. None of that mattered. He couldn’t focus it. He couldn’t stop Curtis.

The Killing Curse hit Draco square in the chest. A flash of green light and he fell to the floor. The fire burned around them, the room still tearing itself to pieces. For the first time in his life, Harry truly wanted to kill.

He couldn’t hear the words Curtis was saying. Harry pulled energy into his body again. He could still feel Draco’s magic. It wasn’t gone. The body in the floor in front of him held no life, but the same magical signature was there and fuck did it hurt.

He closed his eyes against the smoke now burning them. With one of his legs still bound to the heavy wooden chair, he reached forward and put all that pain and hatred into a clear vision. Harry wanted to crush the life out of Curtis. With another rush of magic from his fingertips, he heard a strangled cry and held his concentration.

Before the sound stopped, cold hands gripped his wrist.

“Harry! Stop!”

He refused to let Draco’s voice be used against him.

“Potter!”

Harry’s eyes were open before Draco finished shouting his name.  

“You have to stop.  You’re killing him.”

He shook his head, refusing to let Curtis confuse him like this.

Draco stepped directly between Harry and Curtis, blocking the curse coming from Harry’s outstretched hands.

“Stop. Please,” Draco begged.

“Why are you protecting him!?” Harry screamed. His throat was raw and his voice sounded foreign even to his own ears.

“I’m not.”

“You’re protecting him!”

“Potter, I’m protecting you! You have to stop.”

Harry looked around for the flicker. There hadn’t been one before. There had to be one now. Draco couldn’t be both dead in the floor and standing with his hands on Harry’s wrists.

Nothing gave it away. There was nothing. The colors matched. The shapes weren’t moving. The fires burning around them were hot; the tears running from Harry’s eyes left wet streaks on his face; Draco’s magic pulsed forward in time with Draco’s heartbeat.  

Curtis killed someone. That someone was not Draco.

Harry relaxed his magic. The plaster stopped cracking, the floorboards fell to the floor, the ceiling tiles stopped rattling...a murderer stopped choking to death on the far side of the room but didn't move. Draco tried to calm the fires, but even with his wand, the room blocked too much magic.

“We have to get out of here,” he said, pulling at the knots in the rope around Harry’s ankle. “We’ll take them both with us. Rest of the building is empty. No one else will get hurt. And you are not a killer.”

“Almost,” Harry said.

“You are not a killer.”

Harry looked him over again. Not sure if he dared believe that he’d just been rescued. The clothes were Draco’s. He wasn’t wearing jewelry or cologne, and his hair looked unwashed. His eyes looked exhausted, and he hadn’t shaved.

“How long?” Harry asked, when Draco pulled him up to stand. “How long was I gone?”

Draco pulled Harry forward, forcing him to walk. He was getting out of the room.

“Six days,” Draco whispered. “I sent a patronus to Ron the second I found out where you were. He's right behind me. Help is coming.”

“How did you find me?”  

“Later.”

Draco helped him out of the room, down the stairs. As they were headed toward the front door, two aurors shoved their way into the house. Harry stepped out into the open air and couldn’t force himself to take another step. He sank to his knees, and Draco let him.

“Who was there when I cursed you?”

“What?”

“Answer the question,” Harry said, looking up at Draco.

“Myrtle.”

“What nickname or pet name do you call me when we’re alone?”

“I call you Harry. Or Potter,” Draco answered more patiently. He must have worked out what Harry was doing and continued without prompting. “The bookmark in the book you’re reading is the take away receipt from our last Chinese food binge. There was a dumpling that was almost burnt on the bottom and you took that one first so I wouldn’t have to eat it. I pretended not to notice because I know you feel awkward when I point out your tendency to do things like that. The last person you lost a chess game to was Hermione. You gave her two moves to each one of yours while she was still learning how to play. Pansy loves iced mango tea.”

Harry nodded letting himself picture each of the otherwise trivial things Draco said, each one making him feel more grounded than the last. These were things that no one would care about, things that mattered more to him in this moment than anything else. Ron met up with them and they sat there long enough, talking about the small details of their lives, that his adrenaline had burnt away. The screaming pain in his cheek was back in focus, and judging by the look on Ron’s face, it looked as bad as it felt.

They let Harry sit there while the aurors dragged a very-injured Curtis out of the house only moments before bringing out a body of someone who looked to be Draco.  

“Polyjuice, I reckon,” Ron said. Seeing the look on Harry's face, Ron continued, “Mate, you know that wasn’t really Malfoy right?”

“He was somebody,” Harry said weakly.

“We’ll find out who. This guy will pay for what he did to him,” Ron took Harry’s hand, “And to you. I’m going to apparate you to Mungo’s now. Are you ready?”

Harry said nothing. He grabbed Draco’s arm and held tight. Draco nodded to Ron and the three of them were gone with a loud crack.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, Hermione shoved her way into Harry’s hospital room.

“Miss, I said, you can’t go in-” the mediwitch stopped short.

Hermione spun on her heels and whispered in a quiet rage, “If you want to stop me, you’d better fetch an army.” She continued across the room and stopped in front of Harry with tears in her eyes.  Harry could see her steady herself before she tried to speak.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” she said, sparing a quick glance at Draco sleeping in the chair next to Harry’s bed. Harry still hadn’t let go of Draco’s hand.

“Back,” Harry scoffed. “Turns out I was next door to home the whole time.”

Hermione was too aware of the situation to take offense to his tone, “Why haven’t they fixed your face yet?”

“The bone fragments are too close to my eye to use a charm. I’ve got a couple doses of Skele-gro in my system as well as some potion that’s supposed to dissolve bone shards that the Skele-gro won’t pull back into place. Other than that, one knife cut and some bruises from the rope were all the damaged I walked away with. They’ve already fixed the rest. By this time tomorrow I’ll be good as new,” Harry put on a brave face though it hurt too much to fake a smile.

She pushed up her sleeve and looked down at the word that scarred her skin, “Harry, this wasn’t all I walked away with. It’s just the only thing anyone can see. When you’re ready, you need to talk to someone,” she said. When Harry rolled his eyes at her she continued, “Or write bad poetry, get a cat, take up kickboxing. Something. Don’t let it eat you alive. You owe it to yourself to do better than that.”

Harry nodded.

“We were looking for you the whole time,” she said. “When you rang Ron, the call didn’t disconnect for several minutes. We went to your house. Draco took us to the cafe. He found your phone and someone told us you were drunk and carried out by one of the bartenders, but he must have been using some kind of charm. Everyone gave us a different description. No one saw where you went.  The room he kept you in-”

“It was like a deprivation chamber. No magic in or out,” Harry said.

“Right,” Hermione said. “That man left the door open. That’s how Draco found you. Your magic was like a beacon, he said.” She reached up but hesitated, not knowing where she could touch him to offer comfort. Harry took her hand.

She said, “When we got to your house that first night, Draco was up. He was waiting for you. I thought you would want to know that. He blames himself for all this.” She gave his fingers a light squeeze before letting go.

Hermione was almost out of the room before Harry asked, “Who was he? The man that he killed?”

“His name was Matthew Bohman. He owned the house you were in. He lived alone. No one else got hurt,” she said. “That man will never walk free again.” She waited, but when it was clear that Harry had nothing left to say, she said, “I’ll be in the visitors lobby. Ron and I are here if you or Draco need anything.” With one last sad smile, she left.

Harry would never forget his name. Matthew would be right there among the rest of them, the people who died because of Harry. Maybe someday, he wouldn’t hate himself for it.

 

* * *

 

Epilogue:

“You sure you want to live here?” Harry asked Draco for the tenth time in an hour.

“I want to live with you; you want to feel safe,” he answered.

“But Grimmauld Place is objectively terrible,” Harry said.

“Yes, but we can fix it up,” Draco offered. “If this is what it takes for you to be sure no one is breaking into our house and to be sure that they can’t find where you sleep, then I’m in it for you.”

Draco unlocked the door and led Harry inside.  

“Take your time. Look around,” Draco said, “I’ll go make some tea then we can start getting settled.”

Harry knew what he meant. He told Draco about the flickers months ago, before he even left St Mungo’s. The blinking lights and changing colors of the diagnostic spells and potions sent him into a panic attack.

Draco was brilliant. For every need Harry couldn’t voice, Draco was already working on it. For every new dislike, every trigger, Draco was understanding with no need for explanation. When Harry told Draco to never kiss his arms or the back of his neck again, Draco accepted without question and never accidentally forgot. When Harry refused to be the “little spoon”, Draco asked to be held instead. When Harry was violently sick at the smell of an onion bagel, Draco vanished them all and never brought them back into their house. The fears Harry had about Draco refusing to deal with Harry being broken or damaged was pushed aside each and every time.

This would not go away quickly. This may never completely go away at all, but Harry was beginning to believe Draco when he said, “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please know that the actions, opinions, and choices of the characters hold no representation of my own. There are some horrible things that happen over the course of this fic, most but not all of them are challenged within the text. Most characters (those listed in the tags by name) belong to J.K. Rowling.
> 
> Please also know that Harry's thoughts and feelings during and after the attack are common reactions. This is not to say that these feelings are true. This story is about how he feels, not how I view sexual violence. I do not agree that he "failed" or that he was attacked because he was too weak to stop it. 
> 
> When I chose this prompt, my main goal was to challenge myself. I'm experienced in angst and would like to see myself as an emotional writer, but this was a level of feeling I've never tried to reach. I'm so thankful to the HPHorrorfest for giving me an opportunity to explore such a group of topics. 
> 
> Thanks to the readers who gave this a chance.
> 
> Again, Sophia, thank you so very much for every second of your help.


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